


To Make Offense A Skill

by notkingyet



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, So much drinking, daddy issues like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal didn't end up a drunken wastrel by accident––kings never did anything by accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make Offense A Skill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinobi93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/gifts).



> Takes place between _Richard II_ and _Henry IV Part 1_. Some historical timeline fudgery; follows _The Hollow Crown_ more than anything else.

From what Hal could recall of his own experience in that court, and from what he had pieced together from the rumors and tales afterwards, the cause of Richard II's downfall was simple. The king had gone from a bright, promising boy who single-handedly quelled rebellious peasants to a man (though some called him a woman) who stripped the rights of his nobles and frittered away the royal treasury on favorites before being usurped, imprisoned, and murdered. 

Looking to his father, the usurper himself, Hal noticed a similar sequence of events unfolding. While Henry IV was by no means a frivolous king, his nobles and supporters had already begun to mutter that his reign had not yet fulfilled their expectations; many were beginning to lose hope it ever would. 

The solution, at least to Hal, was readily apparent: Reverse the pattern. Begin by disappointing and end in splendor. It irritated him that no one else had come to the same conclusion. 

So Hal resolved to become a disappointment. 

John noticed first when Hal's intake of wine at meals increased. He shot Hal desperate warning looks across the banquet table, looks which Hal cheerfully ignored. Soon there were whispers, from John to their uncles and from their uncles to their father, grumbles of concern on all sides. 

Hal barely refrained from laughing in their faces. 

He'd been practicing in private for months by then, slowly building his tolerance the same way the assassins of Rome made themselves immune to their own poisons. None but the servants had any idea how much he truly drank, and no one ever thought of talking to them. In the eyes of John and the rest of his family, Hal had made an abrupt leap from one or two cups to an average of four every evening. He let them think this, helping the illusion along by acting out the intoxication he could no longer feel. He slurred his words at dinner, overslept or refused breakfast, pinched his cheeks to redden them before appearing in his father's court and laughed loudly and inappropriately when he was there. He disappeared during the hours alloted for scholarly pursuits and returned with dirt on his boots, smelling of horse in addition to the constant scent of wine on his breath and person. 

Of course, since Hal did not actually want to become a useless lout, he had to keep up with his studies. He did so in secret, by candlelight during the hours when many supposed him out doing God-knew-what with God-knew-who. Rapscallion by day and scholar by night made for a tiresome and lonely business. Furthermore, it effectively doubled his workload from what it had been when he'd been himself. The trade of a rogue was proving far more difficult than that of an honest man. Hal assured himself it would all be worthwhile once he had the crown on his head, if only to see everyone's shock at the transformation. 

Three months later, Hal could easily take six cups in a single sitting and hardly feel warm. Still, great feats had been accomplished by great drunkards, and apart from the worried looks John kept giving him and a vaguely-worded condemnation from his father, Hal's new habits had hardly caused a ripple in the world's view of him. Perhaps they assumed his behavior was merely a passing fancy. Hal would have to prove them wrong. With this goal in mind, he ventured out into town. 

Princes did not often grace the east side of London with their presence. The peasants might not have recognized Hal's face, but even his shabbiest attire was leagues above what any common man could dream of wearing. He gathered stares and confused bows as he walked down the stinking streets. He answered them with easy grins. 

Even more impressive than Hal's wardrobe was his drinking. Small ale and beer were nothing compared to palace wine, and Hal's newfound talent for out-drinking any man who cared to challenge him won him the respect (for a certain value of respect) of every man he encountered as he theatrically stumbled from one public house to another. 

In his third tavern of the night, Hal found a familiar face––or rather, a familiar pair of legs. That particular set of handsomely-filled peach-colored stockings were difficult to mistake. Their owner, a dark-haired young man preoccupied with winning a game of flapdragons, did not notice Hal's approach. 

"Well met, sirrah," said Hal from behind the man's shoulder. 

The man spun around on his stool, mouth already half-open, ready to put down whoever thought he could address a gentleman so, but rage quickly turned to confusion, then to wonder. 

"Good evening, my lord," said the man. 

Hal had a response prepared, the usual courtly nonsense of pretending to forget an inferior's name, but he remembered he was no longer at court. Why keep up the pretense? He swallowed his speech, cleared his throat, smiled warmly at the fellow, and spoke. 

"What brings thee here, Poins?" 

One could say what one would about the man––and many things were said, "cutpurse" and "coxcomb" among them––but he handled surprise well. A blink and a laugh later, he'd invited Hal to join the game. 

Over the course of the evening and well on into the night, Poins answered all of Hal's carefully-worded questions with both honesty and wit. He taught Hal the rules for the drinking games favored by the tavern's patrons and had the good sense to act unoffended when Hal quickly surpassed him in skill. He explained why the ale made Hal feel even less than the wine he'd grown used to (the innkeep watered it down to the point where it could hardly be tasted) and recommended other public houses––this one for its women, that one for its drink. When Hal complained his clothes marked him as a man of means and impeded certain schemes he wished to try, Poins met him the next night with a plain tunic and hose for each of them. In less than a week, Poins had all-but-replaced Hal's manservant. Hal considered making the change official but found he was too fond of the novelty of having a companion not on his father's payroll. Poins didn't seem to mind either way. 

One night, drunk and tripping up the stairs of some anonymous inn with his arm thrown casually across Poins' shoulders, Hal realized they'd forgotten to hire a companion. Going to bed together without one seemed silly. Or at least, it should have. As he turned to Poins to mention this oversight, he found his gaze stuck on Poins' face, and his lips in particular. By the time they'd staggered through the door of the room he'd rented, he'd placed his palm on the back of Poins' head and his own lips on Poins' mouth. Poins made no resistance. In fact, he seemed almost eager, opening his mouth willingly underneath Hal's tongue. 

Hal already knew he took after Richard more than his own father, at least in this particular aspect, but he could not afford to bear any open resemblance to the deposed king. His reputation might never recover from what he intended to do with Poins. He nearly said as much, almost pulled back to make the proclamation, but Poins' mouth followed his own and sucked him back down into sin. His mind was thick with more than sack, with a heat coiling in his belly and a need growing in his groin. This need would not be sated by Poins' thigh pressing between his own. On the contrary, it only made his problem worse. 

Hal groaned with pleasure and dismay alike as he struggled to justify his actions. Perhaps this incident would serve as a test of Poins' loyalty; if the man could keep his mouth shut about bedding the Prince of Wales, he could be trusted with practically anything. It was hardly a decent excuse, but in the heat of the moment it was all Hal needed to toss caution aside and pull Poins down on top of him, bearing them both backwards onto the bed. 

The next day, Hal awoke naked, sweat-soaked and pleasantly sore. He smiled at the soft light trickling in through the lattice window and marveled at the novelty of being up before sunset. He turned this smile on his still-sleeping bedmate. But as his mind shrugged off sleep, the smile fell from his face. By the time he had Poins' shoulder in hand and was shaking the other man awake, his look was grim indeed. 

"Thou wilt not speak of this," he said once Poins was roused. 

Poins furrowed his brow. "O' course, m'lord," he said, his speech still slurred from sleep. 

"Not to any man," Hal insisted, though he'd never felt the need to insist upon anything before. He was the Prince of Wales, heir apparent to the throne of England. What he wished for was done, simple as that. Nevertheless... "Swear it," said Hal. 

Poins paired his nod with a one-shouldered shrug. "My tongue is stilled; hang me if this be not so." 

Hal let out his breath in a low sigh and gave Poins a tight smile. Within the quarter-hour he gathered his effects, donned his clothes, and slipped out into the back alley of the tavern, beating a swift return to court. 

He did not go back to Eastcheap that night. Nor the next. He remained at Westminster and waited for the whispers to reach his father. _The Prince of Wales is a catamite, the Prince of Wales is a woman..._ He'd wanted a tarnished reputation, yes, but not quite so pitch-black as this. He began to regret his inability to lose himself in drink. Even without the aid of wine, he nearly made himself sick with anticipation and dread. 

Despite his frequent absences and erratic behavior on the rare occasions when he was present, Hal had managed to remain a member of his father's privy council. His uncles barely noticed his return. His father favored him with a sarcastic remark, then dropped the subject entirely. 

To cover for his frayed nerves, Hal upped his antics, openly yawning as his uncles droned on about wars and other impending doom and laughing at nothing. Meanwhile, John's eyes nearly bulged out of his head with his efforts to silently convey his concerns to Hal. This was oddly reassuring; if John knew for certain what his elder brother had been up to, Hal doubted he would have met his gaze at all. 

Days passed, but the rumors Hal feared never found his ears. The usual mutterings about his drunken carousing, yes, but not one syllable about his night with Poins. He gave it a fortnight before he let himself feel relieved. Poins' word was good, in this matter at least. 

When Hal returned to the stews, it was with his chin held jauntily aloft and a grin on his lips. He kept up this display of confidence even as tavern after tavern failed to contain the one man he wished to speak to. 

At last, in a terrible hole-in-the-wall called the Boar's Head, he found Poins alone at a table off to the side, away from the raucous drinking games taking place in the center of the room. Poins' face was carefully blank when he first saw Hal coming towards him, but he reflected Hal's smile of relief as soon as he caught it. Within minutes they were drinking and laughing together as if nothing had ever happened. Roughly half of Hal's laughter was at Poin's words; the rest was aimed at himself, for ever fearing rumor's bite. 

As the evening progressed, Hal found his attention drawn towards the center of the room, where some fat lout was regaling a gang of drunks with wild tales. He and Poins mocked him from a distance until Hal incidentally revealed he had no earthly idea who the object of their scorn was. 

"Sir John Falstaff," said Poins. Hal could hear him struggling to keep the disbelief from his tone. "Jack to his cronies. Shall I announce you?" 

"Do," said Hal with a grin, and followed Poins into the crowd. 

"Sir Sack and Sugar!" Poins called, getting the man's attention. Irritated by the interruption, Falstaff favored them with a scowl. Poins disregarded it. "May I introduce Henry Monmouth, Prince of Wales?" 

It took Falstaff a moment to register what was going on and who was involved, but once he did, he gave Hal a frankly spectacular bow. Hal feared he might bowl over entirely. Then Falstaff straightened and without so much as a by-your-leave, clapped his hand on Hal's shoulder and proclaimed for all the inn to hear, "Good morrow, my sweet boy!" 

Hal blinked at him, stunned. Even Poins did not take such liberties with his person (at least, not publicly). He had half a mind to throw Falstaff's arm off his shoulder and the man himself to the ground for his boldness. The other half of his mind clung to that phrase––"my sweet boy"––and refused to yield it up. Something about its familiarity rang precious when it should have been discordant. 

So Hal answered the insult with a laugh and said, "Good morrow." 

The crowd, which had been tense and quiet for the duration of their meeting, erupted in cheers. Hal doubted any of them knew why. 

Poins had introduced Sir Jack as a creature fit for ridicule alone, but as Hal sat down at Falstaff's table, he found himself charmed. He turned to Poins to make comment on this change, only to find the man was no longer over his shoulder, but against the wall, displaying his least-attractive quality. 

Poins had a temper. Not Hotspur's nickname-inducing outbursts of fury that rolled on until they started wars, but a slow burn that seethed under his skin, occasionally lashing out like a viper, striking and recoiling with the same feverish speed, all evidence of it gone as quickly as it had come, save for that simmering heat that kept a constant count of offenses and plotted appropriate vengeance. 

It was at that seething, simmering stage now. Hal could feel it radiating off him like the faint heat of a banked hearth. It showed more openly in Poins' gaze, his eyes like two burning black coals, and in his arms, crossed tight over his chest as he leaned against the wall. The clenched jaw was a clue as well, but only for a moment before Poins caught Hal's look and reined in his rage. 

That was what made Poins so valuable, Hal thought as he flashed the man a careless grin. He could disagree with the Prince of Wales all he liked, but he knew better than to voice it. 

Poins managed a tight smile in return, one that grew more sincere as he formed it. Satisfied, Hal turned back to Falstaff. Perhaps Poins would come and join them. More likely not. It mattered little; Hal was confident that Poins would warm to the old man in time. How could he not? 

Hal spent the remainder of the night's hours at Falstaff's table. Together they downed drinks by the dozen and traded insults amidst raucous laughter on all sides. Hal ended the evening by drinking Falstaff under the table, impressing the whole tavern in the process. He returned again the next day to do the same. And the next day. And the next. Poins followed him with no outward complaint. 

The Boar's Head held many delights apart from the enormous knight. There were Jack's cohorts, Peto and Bardolph, men with great humor if not great wit. Their initial confusion upon meeting a prince in a poor man's inn soon gave way to enthusiastic acceptance––who were they to question the whims of their betters? The hostess fawned on Hal far more than she ever had on her own sons. And the resident wench, Doll Tearsheet, cared little if nightly amusements between herself, Poins, and the Prince barely involved her. All these and more made for excellent players in Hal's performance of debauchery. 

But the tavern's most attractive feature, to Hal at least, was Falstaff himself. Falstaff, with stories as grandiose as his appetite and affections as great as his girth, whose meaty arms never failed to wrap themselves around Hal's lean frame in greeting. His flesh was warm, his embraces inviting––quite the opposite of the cold reception Hal had known at court, a reception which had grown even colder since he'd put his plan into motion. 

Hal soon scorned most other taverns in favor of the Boar's Head. It was easy, almost too easy, to fall in with Falstaff. 

Less than a year after Poins' fateful introduction, Hal found his fist flying towards the Lord Chief Justice's face (in defense of _Bardolph_ , of all people) and thought, in a flash of horrorstruck clarity, that perhaps he might have fallen too far.


End file.
